Jesus at Work

An Unexpected Loss

“Nearly a decade ago, I was newly married, just beginning my teaching career and settling into a rhythm that felt both hopeful and new. Then, to my surprise, I found out I was pregnant. And just as quickly as I found out, I began to lose the baby. The news of life and the news of loss came intertwined–in the same breath. It was too much for my heart to hold. I had always dreamed of becoming a mom, and now my arms were empty. 

Physically, I unraveled. I couldn't sleep. My mind was foggy, barely able to focus on anything at all. I cried until I had no tears left. I remember sitting in my kindergarten classroom on my lunch break, staring at the sandwich I'd packed, unable to eat it—my jaw locked from tension. Spiritually, I wrestled hard. I cried out to God, poured out my lament, and asked questions I longed to have answered: “God, where were you? Will grief always feel this suffocating? Will I always feel this broken? Will I ever feel joy again? Will you take special care of the babies we never get to hold?”

Even in the thick of grief, God quietly restored my hope. My hope was not found in answered prayers or in circumstances I longed for. My hope does not come from having a living child. My hope is found in Christ alone. The hymn I loved most through that season reminded me of this truth:

In Christ alone, my hope is found
He is my light, my strength, my song
This Cornerstone, this solid ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease
My Comforter, my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand

Isaiah 61:3 speaks of a God who brings beauty from ashes, joy from mourning, and praise from despair. Psalm 34:18 reminds me that he is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Revelation 21:4 promises he will wipe every tear from their eyes and there will be no more death, mourning, crying or pain. Those aren't merely encouraging verses you stamp on a coffee mug. They're lived realities. They're anchors. I still feel the weight of loss in my chest some days, but these promises remind me that one day every tear will be wiped away and every sorrow redeemed. I will keep my eyes fixed on the one who will make all things right, even when it feels impossible.

“Due to Joy”

In the months that followed, I discovered a deep comfort in using creative outlets to connect with God during my grief. Crafting became a way to process my sorrow while drawing near to him. I didn't need the perfect words; I would blast worship music and just make something with my hands. I began Bible journaling, painting, watercoloring, hand-lettering Scripture, and crafting macramé rainbows. These moments of intentional creating became a worshipful way to pour out my heart when words weren't enough. It forced me to be still, to sit in his presence, and to lean into him even when my grief felt too heavy to bear. I began to see God’s fingerprints everywhere, how even the sharpest pain could be woven into something redemptive. 

Over time, I began to sense the Lord leading me to share about the work he was doing in my grief to comfort others walking a similar road. On what would have been our baby’s due date, I started a ministry called Due to Joy. The name reflects what God has done in my life. How he can take our deepest sorrow and, in his mercy, restore a joy that endures even in the middle of loss. A day once marked by grief became the day God planted a seed of purpose I never expected. I began prayerfully assembling miscarriage care packages—simple gifts filled with Scripture, journals, keepsakes, and quiet reminders of hope. My prayer for every box was that it would reach the hands of a grieving woman when she needed it most. I prayed she would encounter the God of all comfort and be reminded that even in her sorrow she is never alone.

As my husband and I worked together to assemble these gifts, 2 Corinthians 1:3-5 became a guiding truth: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

Through our baby’s brief life, now cradled in the arms of Jesus, God has brought forth lasting fruit that testifies to his faithfulness. Each care package carries a whisper of redemption. What began in grief has become a reflection of the God who makes beauty from ashes, and oh, friends, he is so merciful to restore what is broken.

After my first miscarriage, God's faithfulness carried me in ways I couldn't have imagined. A few years later, He blessed us with two daughters who are now six and two years old. Holding them in my arms brought a joy I had longed for, yet it didn't erase the grief I carry. In fact, those years of joy were deepened by the season of loss I had walked through. I began to understand that hope and sorrow can coexist. You can deeply grieve what is lost and still have immense gratitude for the gifts God has given.

A Familiar Ache

This past April, I experienced another miscarriage, but my grief looked different with this loss. Physically, I was weary with an exhaustion so heavy I'd lie flat on the warm concrete in my backyard. I could barely lift my head. Psalm 3:3 came alive: "But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head." The Lord met me there. I found comfort in crafting again—this time alongside Stella, my oldest daughter. Side by side, we’ve been making bracelets, mosaics, paintings, and collages, all as acts of praise and thanksgiving.

Spiritually, I carried grief differently this time. I didn’t experience the same flood of tears or spirals of questions. Instead, there was this deep, quiet sadness paired with an overwhelming sense of God’s nearness. I struggle to put into words just how close his presence has felt. In still moments of prayer, as I read God’s word, as I worship at the top of my lungs, in the mundane tasks that come with parenting our daughters, while I go on walks with my sweet husband, or when I hear my daughters’ laughter—through it all, I can feel his steady, sustaining hand guiding me.

A God Who Redeems

God whispers a truth we can cling to: This suffering is not the end. He is writing something eternal, something we cannot yet fully see, something far greater than the heartbreak we carry. The God of all comfort meets us in the middle of our sorrow. He is not a distant Father wishing we would just "get it together" and pull ourselves up from our bootstraps. He sees us, weeps with us, and sustains us. He draws us to himself and offers us true rest. His grace is sufficient for us, and his power is made perfect in our weakness.

Scripture does not ask us to ignore our sorrow. Instead, it invites us to bring it all before a compassionate God who collects every tear and carries every burden. I don’t have all the answers, but having walked this path, I know this to be true: God is near to the brokenhearted, and in him we are never alone.

Whether you're in a season of waiting or sorrow, or a season of hope and healing, the Lord sees you. He is working in the waiting, moving in ways you do not even notice, and drawing you closer to himself. Keep your eyes fixed on him, friend. One day, all things will be made new. Until then, I pray you experience his nearness in the waiting.”